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The Maiden in the Tower

Chapter 4

"Do you want to hold him, my lady?"

Lyanna shook her head, although all the maester and the two women perceived was a barely noticeable stirring of her head. Wylla brought the babe over to her, a smile lighting her face and turning her almost into a beauty; with her mind free of this debilitating pain for the first time in what felt like years, Lyanna realized that the wetnurse thought the moment a joyful one. She still thought Lyanna was in the clutches of pain robbing her of reasoning but she would come around as soon as she saw her child. She was wrong. Lyanna's mind was fully recovered. And she didn't feel a lick of maternal joy. But she looked at the babe – she was a little curious.

The shock robbed her of breath. He looked more of a Stark than Rhaegar's spawn had the right to look! Dark hair, eyes that were so cruelly grey even at this young age… He looked like a son of Brandon's might have looked like had he had the time to father one. He looked like a son of Ned's might look like if Ned was still alive and had the time to do so!

"He looks so much like you, my lady," Wylla said proudly, as if she was the one who had barely survived being lost beyond the Wall!

Lyanna didn't say anything but when the wetnurse tried to place the newborn in her arms, her whole body recoiled. "No," she breathed.

It was nothing like what she had been told. Nothing! Now, she was as furious with Old Nan and the other women in Winterfell as she was with Rhaegar. They had lied to her just like he had. They had assured her that while pain in childbirth was agonizing, the thought of a woman's babe would give her the strength to keep going. Why hadn't she asked herself why the thought of her mother's last babe hadn't given Lyarra Stark enough strength to pull it through? The thought of her babe. Ha! Lyanna had actually forgotten that she was having a babe, all she had been able to perceive was pain. She had been supposed to heal immediately as soon as she first saw her babe's face – well, what, then, was this dull sensation between her legs? She still felt as if she had been torn apart.

In the month that had passed after the news from King's Landing arrived, she had reassured herself remembering this girl from the dairies in Winterfell. Everyone knew how her child had come to be. An outlaw had been beheaded for this and Lyanna had not felt an ounce of mercy when her father had brought Ice upon the man's neck. The girl had actually laughed… and yet a year later she had been the fondest mother of all.

It wasn't so with Lyanna. The small creature in Wylla's arms touched something in her heart but this thin thread was almost broken by shame and despair, and the feeling that he was stealing something that did not belong to him. This child of horror shouldn't look like a Stark. It was not right!

Are you happy now, Rhaegar, she thought furiously. Is this the fate you wanted for your third head of the dragon?

"Give him to me," she finally said, indifferent to the pain now, indifferent to the heat that was rising in her body, indifferent to the babe's mewling. Instinct made her put him to the breast, though, and then she realized that at least one of the things she had been told was true – new mothers often had no milk immediately after birth. He spit the nipple and wailed angrily.

"Take him away," she whispered, dull relief overcoming her. She would not have anything to do with him. He didn't need her to.

By now, she was so used to the smell of dead roses and sickness that she had stopped perceiving it. But when Ser Gerold entered, she realized how strong it might be, just by the look of his face.

"How are you feeling, my lady?" he asked, looking at his feet.

"Like a captive," Lyanna answered. She no longer had the strength to summon even an ounce of malice.

He sighed. "When you get better, we'll leave."

She reached for the cup on the coffer at her bedside. It was not filled to the brim – she was increasingly becoming so weak that she could no longer handle this much liquid safely.

"It doesn't change anything to me," she said. "Leave now. Take him to safety. At the moment, I am only a burden. You're endangering him by staying here. The rebels might come any moment now."

"We cannot leave you here."

Rhaegar and his orders? Their misplaced sense of knightly virtues? Lyanna couldn't remember the explanation Ser Arthur had repeated for her earlier today… or was it yesterday? But it didn't change a thing. She was as powerless as those first days when they had taken her, her reasoning unheard, her wishes ignored, her will bent. She wanted them to take her babe to safety. There was no use to wait for her to recover. She couldn't bear the thought of him falling into the rebels' hands and yet she did not want him in her life. He was the symbol of all wrongs she had done and endured, all the horrors that plagued her still. It was so very unfair to put him in danger just so they could wait for the recovery of a mother who didn't feel connected to him. Who didn't want him.

"You must leave me here," she insisted with the last remnants of her wakefulness. Sleep was encroaching near and she was fighting it, fearing it and longing for it. It could bring her memories of golden days long gone – or the memories of days from this past year. Worse yet, images from this past year, images of what must have been, far, far away. "Take him and go. Release me!"

"You aren't a captive, you're…"

But she couldn't hear what she was because at this moment, fever overcame her again.

"Help me rise."

The handmaiden gave her a look of horror. "My lady, you shouldn't!"

"Help me rise, girl!"

Lyanna's harsh, brittle, rasping voice somehow came out with all of Rickard Stark's implacable will. The handmaiden bit her lip and reached over, then screamed when Lyanna placed her feet on the floor and rose slowly, only to topple over her companion immediately.

"Here, my lady… let me help you lie back…"

Wylla rushed in and gasped at the sight of Lyanna. Together, the two women settled her back in bed but when the wetnurse reached for the cover, Lyanna waved her off with a thin hand. "Go there! Tell me what's going on!"

She strained with all her might to keep herself alive and well so she could pray to the Old Gods she had so insulted. She, not Ned. He didn't deserve what those men, those knights would do to him. Please! Please have mercy.

"How many people are there?" she whispered.

"Seven, my lady."

A piercing shriek smashed against the wall, reverberating all over the old tower and making it shake. At least, Lyanna thought so, In fact, the scream remained forever frozen in her throat, barely moving her lips. It was almost a sigh, only fainter. That's the end for Ned, she thought before darkness rose against her and yet each time she clawed her way out of it, the two women told her that Ned was still alive. Still fighting. Sweet relief would descend upon her and then be drowned in despair as she was told of yet another man not in white who had fallen. The women did not know their names, of course, and Lyanna might not know any of them, but that didn't matter. They were her people. They had come here for her. For Ned. For loyalty. She wished that she could be the one who died instead of them. That she'd die before she faced Ned or any of them. Cold wrapped long gaunt fingers around her. It was not the refreshing cold of Winterfell. This one lulled her to unconsciousness, lack of knowledge what was going on beyond the window and she fought it with the same determination that she had fought those three knights at Harrenhall.

"Your brother is coming!"

Wylla's voice snatched her away from the shame, and pain, and the sea of white snow waiting to embrace her and keep her forever.

"He's coming! He's covered in blood! He's so scary…"

Suddenly, that was the funniest thing Lyanna had ever heard. Ned scary! Sweet Ned! She tried to laugh – and then she heard the babe wailing again.

All of a sudden, she realized that Ned might be scary. She hadn't seen him in a year – a year that had changed her. How had it changed him? Sometimes, she hated the babe. How could he not hate the newborn when he saw him?

"Give me the roses," she said urgently.

The two women stared at her, confused. The laurel Rhaegar had once given her was lying in a coffer, unlooked and left there to rot because Lyanna couldn't bear to look at it anymore and she had exhausted all of her rage at Rhaegar himself.

As they scrambled to obey, Lyanna lay back. She had always lived her life in truth, yet now she had to die in a lie – she who had always thought a lie was beneath her. The wails of the babe intensified and Wylla rose to look at him. "The roses!" Lyanna snapped and the memory of that mismatched armour she had once donned to stand for what was good and right appeared before her a moment before the door opened.

The End

A.N. In case you're wondering: no, Lyanna doesn't hate Jon. She still believes what she's been told – that a mother's love always comes instantly after the birth and is stronger than anything. She's still sixteen and unaware that sometimes, love isn't so much about what you feel but about what you do. She might feel conflicted about her baby but at the end, she tried to feed him, she tried to send him away with the Kingsguard because she thought it was best for him, she rewrote her own story to give him the best chances with Ned. If that's not love, I don't know what it is. The rest would have come with time. She simply didn't have that time.